In Him We Are Home

We do not follow a ghost,
nor build our faith on fading ink.
We believe in the impossible,
in the thunderstrike of dawn
when death was made a liar.

Yes, we believe He died.
Not softly, not symbolically,
but actually crushed beneath the weight of our shame,
His limbs went slack, and we gave Him silence in His chest,
the sky went black with sorrow.

And then,
He stood again.

Not as memory, nor as myth,
but as flesh reborn with fire in His veins,
as wounds that glowed with glory,
as the breath of God
walking barefoot through the garden
on the other side of the grave.

We believe in that.
That bones shattered were mended,
that the tomb lost its grip,
that despair was pierced by morning light.

And not if, but because He walked out of that grave,
nothing is too broken to be restored,
no night too dark for dawn to find,
no sinner too lost to be called by name.

This is the anthem of our souls:
The grave is empty.
Love has conquered.
And He is alive.

And in that truth,
our hearts find rest.
The world may shake,
but we will not be moved.
For what fear survives
when even death has bowed?
What storm can steal the peace
of those who know the stone was rolled?

He is alive!
And so we are unshaken.
So we are free.
And in Him; we are Home.